And wishe well to thy soule will I,
So long as I have life;
So will I not do for thee, Barnàrd,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife. 100
He cut her pappes from off her brest;
Great pitye it was to see
The drops of this fair ladyes bloode
Run trickling downe her knee.
Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all, 105
You never were borne for my goode:
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you sawe me wax so woode?[227]
For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,
That ever rode on a steede; 110
So have I done the fairest lady,
That ever ware womans weede.[228]
A grave, a grave, Lord Barnard cryde,
To putt these lovers in;
But lay my ladye o' the upper hande, 115
For she comes o' the better kin.
†‡† That the more modern copy is to be dated about the middle of the last century, will be readily conceived from the tenor of the concluding stanza, viz.
"This sad Mischief by Lust was wrought;
Then let us call for Grace,
That we may shun the wicked vice,
And fly from Sin a-pace."
FOOTNOTES:
[225] Bucklefield-berry, fol. MS.